The Language of Flowers
by PoeticallyCryptic
Summary: People find meaning in the smallest and most unnecessary things. Aren't ordinary people adorable? Eventual MoriartyxOC
1. Chapter 1

**The Language of Flowers**

* * *

The alarm clock blared through the dense silence of Michelle Fletcher's apartment like a blow horn. It was terrible sound that would frighten a deaf person, and Michelle often wondered why she didn't buy a new clock with a different sound. Simple enough – this one, with its ghastly tune similar to a banshee shriek, was the only thing that could get her out of bed.

A small hand deftly reached out from underneath down covers to slap haphazardly in the general area that the alarm clock would be located, yet it seemed to have trouble finding it. It never seemed to be in the same place, constantly moving to avoid being turned off immediately. This diabolic plan was to ensure Michelle's awakening. Though she'd much rather continue lying in bed with the illusion of having free time, much like the mornings before this, Michelle was forced to sit and _look_ to shut the monstrosity up.

A blurred look out the window near her nightstand informed her that it was overcast, probably going to rain some time later that day. The sun was attempting to poke its way through the dense clouds to no effect. Pedestrians hobbled up and down the block, scuttling along like cattle. The bleak, overall feel of the morning did nothing to persuade Michelle to get out of bed, but the rent on her flat wouldn't pay itself – such is life in paradise.

Heaving a sigh, she lifted the covers away from her body, plopping her feet on the carpeted floor with a determination that she didn't feel. She stretched diligently, hearing a crack that was likened to the gun of a race being fired, and she had no doubt that she would be in last place by the time it was over. Putting some coffee on to brew, she went about getting dressed and doing her daily routine, monotonous as always.

Shimming into a pair of black slacks and a grey blouse, Michelle's dress reverently matched her mood. After a moment's thought, she grabbed a grey Gatsby cap and looped a dark green scarf around her neck. By the time she reentered the kitchen, her coffee was brewed to perfection – or as perfect as cheap, store-bought coffee could get on a low budget.

And if the coffee didn't reflect her low standard of living, the state of her apartment clearly did: Small kitchen, closet-type bedroom, small bathroom. The den was miniscule with only a recliner and a coffee table; no phone, no television, but she had internet and a laptop – along with a cheap cell phone – and it suited her fine. It was the type of apartment that a student just out of university might indulge in, low-rate and basic.

Michelle only wished she could excuse her living conditions as such.

"Should have stayed in school…" she mumbled, flipping her cell phone open and going through her contacts. A calendar was tacked in the wall, various notes and reminders scribbled onto it hastily with a ballpoint pen. The only days that weren't marked that particular week were Tuesday and Saturday.

Michelle munched on a slice of burnt toast as she finished her coffee. She was flipping through the newspaper diligently, expecting something exciting to be happening in the city of London. There never really was.

Glancing at the clock, she placed the mug in the sink, staring helplessly at the mound of dirty dishes piled on one another. Normally she attempted to stay ahead of the trash that littered her apartment. Her standard of living was low enough without garbage joining her, and she occasionally prided herself on being the epitome of cleanliness. Vowing to clean up when she got home, she grabbed her jacket and bag, stepping outside and locking the door behind her.

The chilly London air hit Michelle hard, and she slipped into her coat to preserve warmth. People passed her by without a single glance, probably heading to their workplace as well. She saw most of this same people every day and never bothered to begin a conversation with any of them. She wasn't shy or anti-social; she just lacked any interest in the lives of others.

She started off down the street with a dejected stride, lacking normal confidence and enthusiasm. Her normal countenance was far more optimistic, but she seemed unable to get into her good mood.

She strode into a flower shop called _The Garden_ and nodded to the young woman behind the counter. Slipping out of her coat and scarf, throwing them softly onto a chair in the backroom, Michelle put on an apron to join the woman.

"Rough night?"

"Rough life," Michelle replied. Her voice was groggy and devoid of warmth, which caused the other woman to raise an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Come on, Michelle. You're usually in such a good mood. What's with that expression?" Said expression on Michelle's face resembled someone who had just eaten something sour, maybe rotten. Michelle responded by tugging her cap more harshly onto her head to cover her eyes. She tied her brown tresses into a low ponytail so they wouldn't get in the way, though a few locks managed to escape, cascading down the sides of her face.

"It's been a rough morning, Laura." Laura shrugged her shoulders half-heartedly before flipping through a magazine on the counter. She watched as Michelle sorted through the various flowers – Eglantine Roses, Rue, and Violets. Laura didn't focus much on the symbolism behind each, though she knew enough that the choices were morose. Michelle knew the meaning of flowers extremely well. Laura wasn't sure that Michelle's choices of flower tending were accidental.

"Why don't you go back to school then, if you're bothered by your life so much? Aren't you always saying that you should never have left?"

"I don't even know what I want to do, Laura." Michelle's voice was hushed and docile, lacking confidence. It could have just as easily been because she didn't want to argue. Michelle didn't enjoy being confrontational. "Besides, I don't have the money to go back to school."

"Isn't that what loans and scholarships are for?" Laura's voice was loud and only slightly condescending. She meant well, but often her remarks came across as sarcastic and sardonic. Michelle chose to ignore her, however, in favor of watering the Lobelias near the window of the shop.

She took careful precautions to never look outside those shop windows. She always saw something that irked her good nature, probably because the looks passed her way were both pitying and superior. Just because she worked in a flower shop didn't mean that she couldn't get a better job. She honestly enjoyed being surrounded by nature and that was not easily accomplished when one lived in a city like London.

The bell above the shop door chimed softly as someone stepped inside. Michelle was facing a row of Bellflowers, too focused on arranging them in the perfect way to pay any attention to the customer. She knew that Laura would take care of them and focused completely on her task.

A soft voice broke through her tranquility.

"Are you… fond of flowers?" Michelle turned, startled. It was one thing for a customer to ask about certain flowers, but there had rarely been one who asked her personal questions.

"Well, I work in a flower shop," she answered mildly. Her response was a bit rude, and extremely obvious. She had the decency to flinch in revulsion, however, hoping that the potential customer didn't leave out of insult.

"Yes, yes… of course. I'm sorry." The man had a soft Irish lilt to his voice, just barely there. He stood at about 5'8". It was relatively short for men, but he seemed to have no trouble towering over her. He wore an expensive suit of a designer she couldn't identify – those sorts of things weren't really her forte – and his dark eyes pinned her with an intense stare. There was a sheepish smile on his face and he was rubbing the back of his neck innocently. Laura would call him handsome, Michelle would call him suspicious.

"Can I help you, Sir?" Michelle asked politely, though every cell in her body wanted to back away. "Are you looking for anything in particular?" He lowered his hand.

"I'm not… quite sure. It's silly, really." He laughed, embarrassed. "I kind of just… walked in without much thought. Now that I'm here, though, I figured I would buy something. Buy, ah, well… I'm not really – well… flowers aren't my area of expertise." He stumbled over his words like a bashful adolescent, eyes shifting from Michelle's gaze to the floor.

"Is there a special occasion?"

"Ah, well…" He didn't seem to want to say, or he was expecting her to guess.

"A girl, then? Has someone caught your eye, Mister…?"

"Brook, Richard. And you are?"

"Fletcher, Michelle," she said. Michelle spied Laura behind the counter looking at the two of them, interested. Her magazine lay forgotten on the counter. She made an attempt to be subtle, but it was obvious she was attempting to listen in on the conversation. One look at _Richard Brook_ told Michelle that he noticed as well. "So, are these flowers for a girl?"

"What? Oh. Oh, yes, I should think they are."

"Interest, girlfriend, or… wife?"

"I, ah, could never be so lucky." Michelle looked over Mr. Brook intently, taking note of various things. Despite his seemingly bashful personality, Richard Brook stood with an air of superiority and control, his posture immaculate. His clothing and grooming suggested that he came from money, though that wasn't of any surprise. Regardless of Michelle's impressions, she couldn't imagine that there were many women that he couldn't capture. The thought caused a slight tremor of disgust to fly through her before she realized what she was doing.

"You don't seem the type of man to go for the normal cliché of a dozen roses..." Michelle speculated, glancing up and down his form again. "Maybe not even the typical flowers of love."

"What makes you say that?"

"Just a hunch, I'm pretty good at reading people." Richard stared at her for a moment, his eyes going dark before returning to their normal, vacant brown. He appeared thoughtful for a moment and a bit amused, as if there was some deep secret he was keeping.

"Sorry, 'typical flowers of love?'"

"Well… each flower means something," Michelle began to explain, "_floriography_ – the Language of Flowers. Floral arrangements were used as a sort of, uh, communication amongst people of the Victorian-era. It's not really… used now – forgotten, more or less. A, ah, language for the romantics, I suppose."

"Are you a romantic, Ms. Fletcher?" His soft, Irish lilt broke through her thoughts harshly. His eyes were narrowed. For a moment, she believed they were narrowed in interest, but they seemed to lean more towards… anger. No – maybe more of a challenging glare.

"I wouldn't say that, Mr. Brook…" she trailed off, deciding to change the subject. "Not 'love,' then? How about something more… mysterious?" Richard Brook smiled tightly, nodding his head.

"I'll let you lead."

"Flowers can mean many things, but since you don't want to go for a typical 'love' flower, we can be more subtle. There are a lot of types that you can choose. There's Alcea –"

_Ambition._

" – Arum – "

_Ardor._

" – though you must be careful as the flower is poisonous, and Lotus."

_Eloquence._

"What about this one?" Richard grabbed a single stem out of a bouquet and held it up to Michelle's eyes. It was a beautiful red and orange flower, blossoming robustly from its green stem.

"Ah, that would be a Marigold."

_Cruelty._

Most of the customers who came into the shop cared little for the symbolism of flowers, either not knowing or a general lack of interest. At first glance, Michelle believed Richard Brook to be another one of these people, but something in his eyes hinted that he knew exactly what the meaning of the flower was. She gently took the blossom out of his hand and returned it to its proper place with the rest.

"It's lovely, isn't it?" She didn't believe he was talking about the flower. Something in his eyes showed that he knew she understood. The whole conversation she was having with this man felt like a game. She had unknowingly become a player in this bout of cat-and-mouse and she didn't like it.

"Not something I would give to a romantic interest." He _appeared_ confused, feigning innocence.

"Oh, why not?"

"It's not very… loving," Michelle trailed off, "but if you enjoy the color – which is lovely – I would suggest a bouquet with a dab of mint –"

_Suspicion._

"– it's a wonderful fragrance. It fills the room easily when the bouquet is present."

He laughed lightly, rubbing his hands together in a fashion that would appear nervous if his smile didn't seem so relaxed. As time wore on, Michelle became more and more anxious. There was nothing outwardly wrong with Richard Brook; he just set her on edge. Michelle had a difficult time pining this man's thoughts. Although his smile seemed friendly, it didn't seem _sincere_.

Laura had long-since given up reading her magazine, content to watch her friend and the mysterious man in conversation. He was handsome – that was hard to deny – and Laura would have no problem chatting him up. She watched how awkward Michelle seemed to be around him and her curiosity grew. Michelle was not one of the most social butterflies, but her attitude at that moment bordered on "shy school-girl."

Michelle worked two jobs to pay off that flat of hers – flower girl during the day, bartender at night. Bartending expected a good deal of social interaction, and Michelle often had to deal with some seedy people walking in and out of the pub. This man was far from the dirty hoodlums that Michelle normally described, but he clearly off set her more than the usual scumbag.

A faint tune shook Laura from her observations. It came from within Michelle's bag, which Laura had moved to the back room while Michelle took to watering the flowers. It was a good enough escape plan as any.

"Michelle, your mobile is ringing out." Michelle politely excused herself from the man's presence, sending a grateful look Laura's way before closing the door to the backroom and answering her phone.

It was her boss from the pub, asking for her to come into work earlier if she could manage it. Michelle enjoyed her free time between her two jobs, yet her boss was always kind to her and usually gave her the time off that she requested, so she accepted his request immediately. This would mean that she would only have about a three hour break between the two, but it was enough to get home and relax before starting again.

She sighed lightly, flipping her phone shut and shoving it into her bag. The back room was small, with a few chairs, a small television, and an even smaller closet. Laura and Michelle often took their lunch in this room, not even bothering to go out to eat. They usually went half on takeaway or something similar.

The paint was peeling off the walls, a ghastly yellow shade. The chairs were rickety and very close to breaking; Laura and Michelle often joked that if they gained any weight, the chairs would collapse.

She was stalling. Michelle admitted this to herself readily. She did not want to go back out there and face the strange and… _dangerous_ man that was Richard Brook. He set her on edge in a way she couldn't describe, but every nerve ending was screaming at her to get away from him. Laura allowed her that escape, but she knew she would get nothing out of being a coward.

Inhaling sharply and holding her breath, she stepped out into the front of the store…

… and Richard Brook was nowhere to be found.

"He got a call on his mobile, didn't seem too happy about it, and left in a hurry." Laura was putting together an order for a bouquet of lilacs and irises. It was a simple token of affection, probably an anniversary gift – a year relationship, maybe.

"Did he ever pick a flower or bouquet out for that girl?" Michelle asked quietly. Laura looked over at her solemnly before quirking an eyebrow.

"He did." She pointed to a single flower lying on the counter-top. Michelle looked around for the girl in question. Laura rolled her eyes. "Stop being ignorant. It's for you."

"That's what I was afraid of."

"He was handsome. Rather charming," Laura commented offhand.

"He's all yours."

"Why?"

"He creeps me out." Laura sighed and shook her head, snipping the ends of stems to make them even. Elbows on the counter-top, Michelle leaned forward to watch her work.

"He wanted to know about you."

"I bet he did. What did you tell him?"

"Nothing. I told him to ask you." Laura winked conspiratorially, knowing that she had just lured the man to Michelle more.

Michelle snorted sarcastically, "thanks."

Nothing else was said about the mysterious Richard Brook for the remainder of the work day. Michelle went about her business, cutting stems, arranging bouquets, taking orders, watering flowers. The day went by steadily without so much as another blip, and Michelle was soon praying that it would come to an end even sooner. She didn't look forward to going to her second job after getting off of her first one, but it was the best she could do.

"I'm heading out, Laura. Will you close up?" Michelle asked, slipping into her jacket and scarf. Her hand grasped her bag, hoisting it over her shoulder.

"Yeah, I've got it!" Laura called, then added, "make sure to take the flower Mr. Brook bought you." Michelle hadn't so much as glanced at the flower since Laura had brought it up the first time. As far as she was concerned, it had disappeared from reality the minute Michelle had turned away, so it came as something of a surprise when she found that Laura had wrapped a bow around it with a wet wrap to give it moisture.

It was the first time that Michelle had actually looked at the flower. She didn't know what type Richard Brook had finally decided to buy. From the looks he had given her earlier, he seemed to know a bit more about the "_language of flowers_" than he had admitted. At the very least, he knew what the meanings of most of them were.

Normally they came in bushels, but _The Garden_ stocked them as single stem and bouquets. They were beautiful flowers that came in many different colors – yellow, pink, red. A white, pink trimmed blossom smiled back at Michelle steadily.

Richard Brook was a frightening man.

Michelle Fletcher considered herself a smart woman.

She would burn that flower when she got home, and would forever try to avoid a meeting with that man again.

The lovely blossom was a Begonia.

_A sign of danger._

* * *

**I'm not sure why I'm starting another story. I should be working diligently on my other two, but this plot took me by the throat and wouldn't let me breathe, so I decided to take it for a spin. **

**Read and review.  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**The Language of Flowers**

* * *

Five weeks. It had been a grand total of five weeks since Michelle's encounter with the mysterious Richard Brook and he had almost completely faded from her mind. She liked to say 'completely,' but it was difficult to deny that he would randomly enter her thoughts. There was just something about his presence that day that stayed with her. At the very least, it was clear that Richard Brook easily made a very memorable impression.

Michelle did as much as she could to eject him from her mind, however. While she hadn't burned the begonia upon returning home, it had died not long after from lack of care. She threw the wilted blossom out almost immediately and life returned to something resembling normal.

Her schedule had been set for the next two weeks and she barely had any time to relax. On the plus side of that, all the work hours kept her wonderfully ahead of all of her bills. She was in the process of earning money she could actually _spend_ on luxury items now. Still, these few hours before going into work at twelve were sacred to her. It provided her the relaxation that her days lacked.

Her eyes glanced over the various pamphlets and papers on her kitchen counter, pouring some coffee into the only clean mug that she could find. Most of the papers on the counter were bills, but hidden among them were a few brochures for universities in the area. It was an innocent enough interest, though it wasn't a reality that she had considered. She hadn't been joking when she told Laura that she shouldn't have dropped out. To this day, she could barely remember why she had dropped out in the first place. But even though she had, there was always the thought of continuing her education at some point.

Her life hadn't been very planned out. All of her extended family was back in America, and while she was sure that they would welcome her back from abroad, she didn't want to burden them with her abject 'failures.' The only positive thing about this was that she had graduated high school in America, so she had some education. That didn't say much for job opportunities, however.

And yet, Michelle didn't want to just go running home because things were tough. Her financial situation wasn't the greatest, but it wasn't as if she was living on the streets. She had been comfortable when she lived at home, spoiled rotten by her father, but he had also instilled a good work ethic within her when it counted. It had been difficult going from an easy life to living paycheck to paycheck, yet at the same time she would never want to give it up. She loved the feeling of independence. She was finally living for herself.

Michelle's cellphone rang, causing her to spill the contents of her mug on the kitchen floor. Muttering obscenities under her breath, she reached for her bag where her phone was concealed. Hazel eyes glanced over the name before she answered.

"Laura, I'm not on the schedule until later –"

"– There was a murder last night at _The Garden_," Laura said in a rush before Michelle could interrupt her further.

"What?"

"A murder - last night at _The Garden_. The entire shop was burned down, Michelle!" Laura's words came quickly. She sounded extremely close to hyperventilating.

"Shh, calm down. Who was it? What happened?"

Laura described all the details that she had managed to squirm out of the police. The man, as of yet unidentified, was found among the debris from the fire. It appeared that the majority of the body had been melted with acid beforehand, so the forensics team was going to have a difficult time identifying it. The only reason they were able to identify a body at all was from the DNA left at the scene. Though the acid had destroyed the bones, some DNA had been recovered. Michelle wasn't a master of forensics, or any particular science for that matter, but the thought that some DNA was able to recovered from a situation like that seemed oddly suspicious. Since the bones had been melted and the rest of the body burned, it was highly unlikely that there was much DNA left to be recovered. That could only mean that someone had purposefully planted the DNA to be found.

"That's not the strangest part," Laura insisted.

"I don't think 'strange' is a word I would use to ever describe a murder."

"Listen to me, Michelle. Something was found after the fact." Laura paused for a moment to let the new information sink in, "around the body were flowers. None of them burned; they were laid out after everything happened."

"Someone would have noticed the fire. How could someone slip in and lay flowers around a body inside of a burning shop? They would have been ash in seconds."

"I don't know! That's not the point!"

"What flower was it?" Michelle sighed impatiently.

"Blue Rocket."

* * *

Jim Moriarty was _bored._ It was more than normal boredom. Normal boredom left him feeling disinterested in anything around him; a feeling that he felt on a 'normal' basis. But this – this was advanced boredom. It was the kind that made him completely restless and with it came a large desire to cause more mayhem than usual.

He felt himself sigh petulantly for the eighth time in the past ten minutes. The sun peeked through the curtains of his loft, disgustingly bright as usual. Despite that, he didn't feel any desire to move from his position on the sofa. There was nothing interesting going on, and with that realization, his restlessness continued to grow. He was itching to go outside and cause some chaos and destruction – in his favor, of course. Things were always better when they went his way, yet… they were more interesting when they didn't – quite the dilemma.

After taking care of his little 'problem' last night, he had expected a bit of entertainment. Craig Smith had pushed the wrong buttons; that was the only reason he had to die. It was a good reason as any and Moriarty enjoyed watching the officers of Scotland Yard dance to his tune. It was a sight he would never tire of.

Sure, they may figure out the method of murder, but it was unlikely they would find motive. It was also a certainty that they would never locate the culprit. Moriarty covered his tracks immaculately. Not to mention, the 'unknown-motives' were Moriarty's favorite kills. He didn't get his own hands dirty, but there was nothing better than watching the police trip over themselves wondering if a similar murder would happen again.

If one can't identify motive, then they can never be sure that the killer got what he wanted. They can never be sure that the killer had achieved his goal. Therefore, they were never sure if the killer wouldn't kill again. It was a process that kept everyone, save for Moriarty, on edge. And he _loved it_. Everyone was his puppet, and he was the puppet-master.

The flowers were a nice touch, if not a bit out of character. He had a sudden inspiration from the flower shop girl of a month ago. The flowers wove together to create a beautiful image to go with a morbid scene. Moriarty likened his character to a similar degree. Obviously, there wasn't anyone or anything that he loved more than himself. And boy, did he believe himself to be gorgeous.

He laughed lightly as he thought about it more. The meek, pathetic girl he met in the flower shop a while back had inspired a sort of… poetry in him. It was an interesting flair to his rather dull life, and that was why he chose that particular shop to have his men stow the body.

The girl wasn't really intelligent. She was dreadfully ordinary, nor was she successful by any means. She was an obvious school drop-out going by her clothes and workplace. Her accent was American, so it was safe to assume she came to England to study abroad. Bit off more than she could chew, so she was a girl who didn't plan well. Probably didn't have the money to continue attending school and didn't enjoy the thought of a student loan. She was probably too lazy to attempt a scholarship opportunity, either. She didn't make a good first impression. For the few seconds he had started talking to her, his boredom increased.

But, for a split second that always brought a grin to Moriarty's face when he remembered, she was clever. And in that split second, she captured Moriarty's interest. That didn't bode well for her, but it suited Moriarty just fine. Finding interesting distractions with ordinary people were hard to come by. They were the basis of short-lived entertainment, but never long-lasting interest. It had been five weeks since that encounter and he had kept tabs on that flower shop for a good while. Moriarty was an opportunist, and this girl was something he didn't want to pass up.

It had started out as just simple recon, curiosity. Yet as the days wore on and he received more and more information about her, his curiosity took on a morbid fashion. He wondered what it would take to break this girl, to make her lose every sense of self she had. He wagered it wasn't very much. She was already beginning to crack, desperately trying to pull herself back together. He supposed, from an ordinary person's perspective, it appeared as if she was doing well. From his view, however, he could see every hairline fracture, every little chip in her armor, every chink that could easily turn to chasms if abused properly. It was all on display for his eyes to see.

Interest is what made him walk in to the shop that day. Interest is what kept him from shrugging off the encounter. Interest is what satisfied his boredom, and entertainment is what kept it at bay. He briefly wondered if that girl would realize that it was he who was behind the murder. It wasn't a difficult conclusion if she had any decent brainpower, or unless another person had come around with knowledge of flower symbolism that left a greater impression than he did.

A shot of possessive anger flew through him that caused him to sit up and chuckle menacingly.

"Oh, oh! What's that? What _is_ that I feel?" He hummed, speaking softly to himself. His lips twitched into a grin as his eyes darkened. He grabbed his phone, punching the keys to send a text. His grin never faltered as his good mood restored, the boredom taking a back seat. These were the feelings he lived for. He would be a fool to pass up such abundant excitement.

Once the text was sent to his people, he stood up and stretched lazily. Rolling his head to get the kinks out of his neck, he laughed quietly.

"Someone's going to get it!" he sang, flitting over to his closet to pick out a shirt and tie. He had finally found something relatively entertaining and he needed to dress accordingly. He slid into a beige undershirt, buttoning it up before picking out a grey tie with cherry blossoms on it. He felt it was appropriate.

His phone chimed, alerting him that he had received a text. He glanced at it, taking note of the address and various tidbits of information provided. He loved it when his team worked quickly. Scrolling through the various photos of the woman in question, he stopped at one that had been taken only a few days ago. She looked rather exhausted as she left her flat; her hair wasn't as tidy and she had a definite slouch to her person. How positively… ordinary and unattractive. He felt a shiver of possessive intent run through him again, more tame than before, but no less knee-buckling. His laughter became uproarious as he slid the phone into his pocket and knotted his tie with his phone still clasped in his hand.

He hadn't felt possessive like that in a long time, and certainly not over someone like her. Moriarty kept his cards close to his chest, so when someone attempted to do him wrong, he became possessive and territorial. Craig Smith was a perfect example of what Moriarty's territorial instinct could do if rubbed the wrong way. It seemed that this Michelle Fletcher was now a part of that destructive circle. She became a toy for him to use until he saw fit.

His phone chimed, but the alert was for a call instead of a text. One look at the caller I.D. had him ignoring it. He was not in the mood for any business that day. He slid into his jacket like a knife through warm butter and placed his phone in the breast pocket.

"Sorry boys!" He sang, twirling once before slicking his hair back. "Daddy has to go meet a girl." He slammed the door on his way out.

* * *

"Blue Rocket," Michelle mumbled into her coffee, "also known as Aconite; poisonous; a common symbol for misanthropy, general hatred, distrust, or disdain of the human species. I wonder if the police know about that, it could be a message."

Michelle Fletcher wasn't a detective, but even she knew when something seemed out-of-place. It was odd that the murderer would leave a message like that, if it was even a message at all. It could just be a simple act of poetry. Didn't some killers enjoy being ironic?

It wasn't as if she constantly kept tabs on what was happening in the news, so she couldn't be sure. Hell, she might even be reading too many detective novels. Even so, trying to piece together the clues of the crime from what information she gathered had a therapeutic effect on her. It was just what she needed, considering she was now out of one job.

Michelle had called her manager from the pub earlier to ask for the night off, which he gave immediately once he had seen the news. Seeing as her first job was now gone, she would have to look for another. Working as a bartender alone wouldn't pay for the rent on her flat, as much as she wished it would. Thankfully, she had paid that month's rent already, so she had ample time to look for a second one.

After managing to calm Laura down, Michelle went about her business. Ultimately she decided to just spend the day inside, having no desire to mingle with other people. Her mind, however, continued to flow back to the murder. Naturally, her thoughts first went to Richard Brook, as he was the only one who had adequately understood what the flowers in the shop seemed to mean.

Even though she hadn't heard from the man in weeks, her mind didn't seem to want to erase him completely. There was always something that would remind her of him, usually at the more inopportune moments. She didn't want to remember him, yet he invaded her thoughts like a devastatingly contagious virus.

It was foolish to assume that there was no one else in London that knew about flower symbolism. If she and some wealthy man knew, there was a good chance that there were others out there. Botanists, for instance – they have a job that basically demands environmental knowledge. Maybe there were some whimsical students of the field that were interested in that sort of thing.

Whimsical. Michelle hated describing anyone as whimsical because she was in that category as well. She didn't enjoy being fickle with her life, but she was already twenty-five and had no idea what she was doing with it. Things had a tendency to just brush past her without a second thought and she was always left behind in some fashion. She wasn't an object opportunist, and that lack of motivation was hurting her now.

Laura would claim that she's too stuck in the past to deal with things in the present. Michelle didn't want to believe her. In a way, Michelle took comfort in her normal, boring life. There were no surprises to throw her off and she always knew what to expect. It wasn't the life she expected when coming to England, but life was meant to be unpredictable.

She wasn't an adventurous person by nature; she was perfectly comfortable sitting at home reading a book, labeled as a recluse. These were quiet moments she enjoyed. She wasn't a party-girl lie Laura, who enjoyed partying most of the time. In addition to that, Laura also seemed to know exactly what she wanted to do with her life. In that scenario, she could afford to relax and kick back. Michelle didn't believe she had that sort of ability.

She sat back silently on the recliner, laptop open on the coffee table in front of her. Her feet were cold, but she didn't have the energy to go into her room to grab a blanket. Shifting slightly caused her back to crack unpleasantly and there was no position she could find that was comfortable, yet she didn't want to move for anything.

Michelle Fletcher was bored.

Laura had tried to convince her earlier to leave the house and go shopping with her. Shopping was fine, but there was only so much Michelle could take before going insane. Laura wasn't the easiest person to shop with, either. She had to try everything on twice before deciding if it was something she really wanted.

As for Michelle, she could never commit. Spending money wasn't easy for her since she had gotten so used to saving money to pay the bills. A pretty shirt here, cute shoes there – sure, she would love to buy them, but did she _need_ them? Some days she hated to decide.

Three knocks sounded at the door. Michelle glanced at it from her position on the sofa. The sofa faced the kitchen with the coffee table in front of it. Through the kitchen was the mud-room, or entrance, where her shoes and coat were strewn about. The door was on the other side and could easily be seen from where she was sitting. She stared at it for a moment without really seeing it.

The knocks came again. Michelle was tempted to ignore it, but she didn't really get visitors unless it was Laura. And when Laura did happen to stop by, it was never for very long. The state of Michelle's flat often drove potential friends and acquaintances away. Even when it was spotless, there was barely enough room to function.

The knocks sounded again. Three taps exactly, all measured evenly, no difference in rhythm or pitch. It definitely wasn't Laura, then. Laura had a tendency to knock 'Itsy-Bitsy Spider,' or other various nursery rhymes. It was usually done out of revenge because Michelle would often ignore Laura's calls. Eventually Laura decided that the more obnoxious her knocking was, the quicker Michelle would unlock and answer the door.

It suddenly occurred to Michelle that she had just left some person standing at her door, knocking consistently and politely. She quickly attempted to get up and launch herself over the coffee table. In her haste, her foot caught the end and she went tumbling down along with her laptop. The coffee table tipped, crashing down on her ankle as the laptop fell on the wood floor.

The person at the door was in the middle of their fourth attempt of knocking when they heard the crash. The sound of taps was abruptly silenced. They were probably standing outside wondering what the hell was going on.

A muffled groan sounded through the now silent flat. Michelle's head had slammed on the floor violently. Thankfully there wasn't a wound. Still, she clutched it helplessly before rushing to her feet, swaying off-balance for a moment before making her way to the door. She no longer cared about who was at the door, but it took her mind off of the fact that her laptop was probably broken. Without that, she had almost no contact to the outside world. Her head was also pounding terribly, and she wanted to get this visitor done and over with.

She spent a moment unlocking the various mechanisms at the door and opened it quickly, causing her head to spin with whiplash. It took a second for her eyes to focus on the stranger in front of her. When it did, her nails gripped the door painfully, knuckles turning white. The color quickly drained from her face, causing her to sway more violently. Her sudden terror and spark of adrenaline made her head pound more, increasing the pain behind her eyes. All of these things, however inconvenient or bad they were, proved that she wasn't dreaming.

"Hi there! Did you miss me?" Richard Brook sang, tilting his head menacingly to the side with a smile on his face. Michelle stared at him blankly for a moment, glancing around to see if there was anyone observing them. Her face was carefully vacant, yet Richard Brook appeared to be staring straight into her very being.

It was a similar stare to the one he gave her at the flower shop, yet this one lacked the niceties that he carefully constructed for her the first time. Indeed, there was no pseudo-kindness in his expression at all. Instead, there was a deep interest with manic intent buried deeply in his dark gaze. His smile was more cruel than kind, and Michelle was suddenly very aware of where her caution had come from that day. Though he had hidden his intent, she had still been able to feel suspicious of his person. It haunted her for days on end after the fact because she had never been able to pinpoint _what_ made her so uncomfortable.

And now, after five weeks, everything was laid out before her. He was still dressed to the nines in his fancy clothes; his hair was the same way it was from the day she met him; even his smile hadn't changed. It shook her to her core to realize that all it took to make this man truly sinister was a slight change in his stare – one carefully hidden thing suddenly laid out in the open.

This man wasn't innocent or bashful. He was tainted and drowning in his chaotic mind. Richard Brook's entire demeanor screamed _predator,_ and Michelle felt very much like a weak prey. With the subject of her thoughts now standing on her doorstep looking very much like a stalking hyena, along with the murder fresh in her mind, she did the only 'intelligent' thing her mind could comprehend and act upon…

She slammed the door.

* * *

**I love writing Moriarty. He's such a fun character.  
**

**My updates are based on a review/view ratio where one of the conditions must be met before I post another chapter. It's all meant to motivate me to continue and it shows that people are genuinely interested in this story.  
**

**So please, read and review. :)  
**


	3. Chapter 3

**The Language of Flowers**

* * *

It was after Michelle finished bolting the rest of the locks that the true panic began to set in. She stumbled backwards into the kitchen, slamming her hip into the counter making her way to the den. Despite the many locks on the door, she didn't feel safe, and hastened to put as much space between her and _Richard Brook_ as physically possible. And that was a difficult task, considering how small her flat was.

It wasn't a mere coincidence that he showed up at her door today of all days, she was positive of this fact. How he even got her address was beyond her, but if he was really behind the murder, which was looking more likely as the seconds wore on, than chances were that he was there to kill her. At least, this was the thought process behind her panic.

She leaped over the overturned coffee table and dived behind the recliner. It wasn't the best place to seek cover, but it was the largest piece of furniture in her house. It was also a good vantage point if she decided to make a run for it if he managed to force his way inside. While her mind wasn't very strategic, this was clearly her best option. She wasn't even going to consider going into her room. Then again, she could always try to jump out the window…

Her eyes scanned the room, looking for a weapon of some kind. She wasn't surprised to come up empty, and as the silence wore on, her breathing began to relax. Even, controlled breaths allowed her to see things with sudden clarity, but it did little to settle her unease. About five minutes had passed in silence and there wasn't so much as a bang on the door. Instead of calming her, this only made Michelle more anxious.

She heaved oxygen into her lungs harshly as her phone chimed. Her phone! It had fallen on the floor with her laptop in her hurry to answer the door. She could call the police! Or call Laura to call the police! Hell, she could dial a random number and beg for help, if that was what it came down to! Quietly, so as not to break the tension and cause a ruckus, she crawled to her cell phone. A text message alert shined back at her from a number she didn't recognize.

Unwillingly her eyes traveled back to the door. If the sinking feeling in her stomach was any indication, the man had yet to leave her doorstep. She could faintly see a shadow underneath from his shoes. Bringing her attention back to the unknown number, she opened the text message.

_I wouldn't call the police if I were you._

A quiet, almost inaudible sob escaped from her in terror. Her hands trembled as she clutched the phone harshly to her chest, refusing to look at it longer than she had to. How did he know so much?! First her address, now her phone number – what's next? – Her bank account?

Michelle wasn't a fool. She knew that, in this day and age, it was almost laughably easy to get your hands on someone's information, but she had only been in England for two years! She had made herself scarce; it wasn't like she was in the media or anything. In the grand scheme of things, she was a nobody. Her phone chimed again.

_Unlock the door like a good girl._

She paused. She could imagine the tone he was using, patronizing, as if he were speaking to a child. The thought was enough to dry her tears as her pride came to the surface. Normally she did well in hiding her pride, and yet retaining her dignity. Confrontation wasn't her first course of action, bu she had been through too much to be spoken to like a child. She could imagine his self-satisfied smirk, taunting her with his superiority.

And she rebelled.

_**No.**_

With bated breath, she waited. She didn't know this man well enough to guess his next reaction. He seemed like the type of person who always got what he wanted and whoever stood in his way was cut down harshly. Michelle didn't want to be another one of those people carelessly standing in his way, but this was her home! Her life! And if she was good at anything in this world, it was taking control of her life.

"I'll wait for you to finish your thoughts," a voice stated from her kitchen. Michelle shot to her feet, stumbling backwards on to the recliner. Richard Brook sat at her kitchen table, rifling through her bills and pamphlets like he owned the place. "I feel I should give you fair warning that those who disrespect me as such don't live long to brag about it."

"W-why would I brag about it?" She was glad that her voice managed to stay slightly steady. His eyes captured hers.

"You wouldn't be able to," he drawled, leaning back in the chair. "As I said." He licked his lips slowly, eyeing her with a dangerous calm. It was almost impossible for Michelle to guess what was going on behind his dark eyes. In a bout of sudden courage, she spoke up.

"Who are you?" He smirked at her, teeth showing slightly.

"Oh, little, innocent _Richard Brook_," he stated condescendingly. He lifted his arms in the air as if he was about to take a bow. If he wasn't seated, she was sure he would have. He bit his bottom lip, concentrating on her.

"So, Richard Brook is an alias."

"What makes you say that?" He asked quickly.

"You say the name as if he's someone else," Michelle responded.

"Very good!" He said exuberantly, voice taking on a slightly higher pitch. He stood up, pushing the chair back harshly and taking a few steps toward her. She made to jump off the recliner, but the look in his eyes forced her to stomp down on the urge. When he reached her position, he kneeled down before her, eyes staring up at her.

From his lowered position, her place would seem the superior part due to her height on the chair. It was just the opposite, unfortunately. If anything, with him gazing up at her, he looked even more menacing. His voice, when he spoke, was soft and threatening.

"Michelle Fletcher, do you know what happens to someone who doesn't listen to what I say?"

"They don't live long to brag about it?" She almost cringed at the snarky undertone of her response. Her rebellious nature was going to get her killed. She froze when he chuckled madly.

"Oh, those who don't follow my orders do live, Flower Girl. Of course, I'm not really sure if you can call it living…" She swallowed harshly.

"Who are you?" she asked again.

"There are clearly a few rules we have to lay down before we can continue." He ignored her question completely. Despite his statement, he didn't continue speaking. In fact, it seemed like he lost interest for a moment, a look of complete boredom passing across his face. "This is disappointing. You disappoint me. I was expecting so much more." His eyes turned morose as he whined.

Abruptly, her phone chimed in her hand. It was a text message from Laura, though she didn't get the chance to look at it. The moment she looked down to read it, _Richard Brook_ grabbed the phone from her hand. In a violent outburst, he threw it at the wall, causing it to shatter. The look in his eyes turned manic as his composure dropped.

"When I am in the room, you PAY ATTENTION TO ME!" He shouted, grabbing her chin roughly and forcing her to look into his eyes. Michelle saw madness reflected in his eyes, along with an anger she couldn't comprehend. She was sure that there was a wonderful list of terms that psychologists would use to describe this man, but 'psycho' was the only one she could find that did him justice.

"I'm paying attention to you. You're not doing anything," she responded. He paused, and then began laughing loudly.

"Good, good. Pseudo-courage is adorable, isn't it? Underneath it all, you're so terrified, but so determined to not let it show. What a burden that must be," he said. His face smoothed back to its normal countenance. The change happened so quickly that if Michelle's phone didn't lay broken on the floor, she might have thought she had imagined his volatile nature.

"What burden?"

"Fear," he responded immediately. "It is absolutely… _delicious_ in another's eyes, wouldn't you say?"

"Who are you?" He stared at the wall, but looked like he was miles away from the moment. She could almost see the thoughts running through his eyes, yet she couldn't name what any of them actually meant. He was still as enigmatic as ever.

"Jim Moriarty. I would remember that name, if I were you." He stood up, turning away from her, hands in his pockets.

"It's a good thing you're not me, then."

"Oh, I agree. I would hate to be so dreadfully ordinary," he responded nonchalantly. His eyes scanned her living space with zero interest, disappointed in the conditions of her flat.

"How did you get in?" Michelle asked, sitting straighter in her chair. Since he had made no move to harm her, she was feeling slightly calmer than before – certainly braver.

"The locks on your door are old, long past their prime, wouldn't you say? Anyone could get in, so it's no surprise I could. Pitifully simple, really," he drawled. A sigh escaped his lips, his face once again taking on boredom. He was a difficult crowd to please, yet Michelle realized that her chances of surviving the encounter were greater if she entertained him. She would start by keeping him talking.

"I didn't hear you come in."

"You were drowning in terror," he responded, amused, "it's no wonder you heard nothing."

"What is the point of this?"

"Entertainment." She figured as much.

"You were behind the murder, weren't you?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure you should be telling me something like that?"

"I have nothing to fear," he said, "even if you were to go to the police, who would believe you?"

"I have no criminal record, and they would be forced to look into any leads."

"There is no evidence, but your word. You have no phone to record this conversation with, so no evidence that I admitted as such. There is no identification on the body that can be traced back to me." He turned around to gaze at Michelle with an amused glint in his eye. "I am untouchable. You are more suspect than I am."

"How?" Michelle demanded.

"The shop was locked last night, or do you not remember? Who could have unlocked those doors? Who could have placed the body with flowers surrounding it without creating a scene of forced entry? Naturally they'd investigate the employees first." Michelle paused, blinking slowly.

"Are you framing me?"

"I have no need to."

"Then why are you doing this?!"

"Isn't an unknown motive vexing? Hm, it pleases me to see you fumble around. The thoughts going through your head have no meaning, no substance. They're nothing but empty, air-headed connections that mean little." His voice took on a breathy note, as if he was on the stage of a play, reciting a sonnet.

"So, what you're saying is… you did it because you felt like it?" A slow smile appeared on his face, which was all the answer that Michelle needed to know she was correct.

The two were silent for a few moments. Moriarty walked around her flat, inspecting a few items here and there without actually touching anything. She didn't expect him to, though. He looked at everything as if it was beneath him, and if that were the case, touching them would be out of the question.

Michelle glanced over to where her phone was, destroyed and shattered on the floor. She couldn't imagine any number of scenarios that could allow her to escape from this confrontation unscathed. The thought alone was enough to make her whimper, but thankfully he didn't seem to have heard it.

During the silence, Michelle took the time to observe Moriarty in a new light. Now that he wasn't under the disguise of Richard Brook, she could see how this persona fit his characteristics better. His outward appearance didn't reflect someone innocent, no matter how well he played the part of Richard Brook. Jim Moriarty was cut from a completely different cloth, and it was easier for Michelle to envision this personality than his alias.

She didn't want to imagine him as a child. When staring a murderer or criminal in the face, it's easy to forget that they're human. All a person can focus on is their crimes; for the rest of their life, those will be their defining moments, even if they go out of their way to change. Looking at Jim Moriarty, she couldn't envision his parents. She couldn't imagine a doting mother or a stern father, or aunts or uncles. Nothing. Did he have a girlfriend at any point? Had he ever gone to a school dance? Did he ever have a group of friends that he goofed off with? What could happen that would turn someone into the being that stood before her?

"Well," he suddenly sung, stretching his neck to the side, "I think I've had my fun for the day." Michelle blanched.

"That's it?" Her incredulity was turning to anger. "You came here to frighten the shit out of me and just leave?!" In truth, she should have thanked whatever god was watching over her that, that was all he wanted to do. The outcome could have been much worse, but she felt humiliated and insulted, so her desire to lash out came to her in full force.

"I'd watch how you speak to me," Moriarty said slowly. "Greater people have died for much less." His words weren't boastful, but they were honest. Michelle could see that plainly.

"And what will you do now?"

"Interesting question, and one I have no intention of answering. Just know, Michelle Fletcher, that I will come calling. I expect your full attention when I do." With a final twirl of his arms, Jim Moriarty disappeared out her front door as if he wasn't even there.

For an hour, Michelle sat on her recliner, staring at nothing in the space in front of her. Her flat was quiet, desolate. If it weren't for the overturned table, her broken phone, or pushed out chair from where Moriarty sat, she would have figured she imagined the entire thing. But everything that had happened was very real, regardless of how surreal it felt.

In a burst of complete and irrational emotion, she let out a tortured sob. She had resisted the impulse to cry for the last hour, but with the threat of Jim Moriarty finally gone from her home, there was nothing to stop her tears from falling. Never in a million years would she have imagined going through something like that.

For a brief moment, she thought about throwing caution to the wind and taking the next flight home. When her rationale returned, she realized that she had no idea of Moriarty's sphere of influence. She didn't want to cross a man who had all the resources in the world at his disposal. Even though he could probably quite easily track down her family if he so desired, she didn't want to lead him straight to their doorway.

Ergo, that option was no longer available. It was a foolhardy assumption that she would be able to go back to normal life. Suddenly all the ugliness of the world seemed much more clear and she felt helpless in the midst of everything. The mere notion that there were men like Moriarty roaming the streets did nothing to calm her. On second thought, maybe it was better that Moriarty was one of a kind. Michelle didn't believe that the world could handle another man like that.

She wrapped her arms around her shoulders, folding into her recliner in a desperate attempt to disappear. Thinking ahead, she figured that the police would eventually come to question her about the shop. Michelle was not a very good liar, and she knew too much about the murder to try to feign ignorance. It was as Moriarty had said: she was more of a prime suspect than he would ever be. Pausing, she realized that was his intention. He wanted to put her in a place where she couldn't move or take advantage of. She couldn't lie about the murder, but she couldn't exactly tell them that she knew who did it. Guilty by association, right? Even if they did believe her about Moriarty, she could easily guess that he had the means to turn everything back on her.

On the other hand, if she was to flee home or somewhere else, that would just make her more suspicious. The possibility of her being the murderer would increase and she would become wanted by the police, which meant her family would be informed and then she'd have no safe haven…

Expect for Moriarty.

That crafty bastard. That was his plan all along! He wanted to put her in a place where she had no choice but to rely on his "good-will" to save her. He wanted her to come crawling to his feet like a goddamn animal.

She refused. She wasn't the strongest mind or body. She wasn't the smartest person on the block, but she _was_ stubborn. And, unfortunately, she was extremely spiteful. She would rather rot in a jail cell than go to him for help. Besides, if the justice system was as good as she hoped it was, Scotland Yard would believe her innocent. The evidence didn't necessarily point to her, and she hadn't heard about the murder until this morning. Laura could be her alibi!

Then again, Laura wasn't with her all the time, and those few hours that they were apart couldn't be accounted for. Michelle loathed to be backed into a corner, but she decided that the best course of action would be to wait it out. She wouldn't go to the police, and she would let them come to their own conclusions.

"I think I'm going to be sick," she croaked. Fortunately, she was able to stomach her sudden nausea and began the process of cleaning up her den. Flipping the table back in its proper position, she looked over the state of laptop, pleased to find that it hadn't received much damage from the fall. Her coffee table was small, so it hadn't tumbled far.

Her phone, unfortunately, was destroyed. She knew it was from the moment its projectile hit the wall, but there was a part of her that hoped she had dreamed the extent of the damage. As her luck would have it, the warranty for it had expired long ago and she never bought the insurance for it. Her only option was to get a new phone, which would probably eat up all of her extra money.

A knock on her door ended her thoughts and she glanced at it warily. Considering what happened the last time someone knocked on her door, it was understandable that she was hesitant to repeat the process. Sighing quietly, she moved toward it with all the enthusiasm of a death row inmate.

"Can I help you?" she asked the man at the door. He wore a uniform of a delivery man, cap included.

"Are you Ms. Michelle…Fletcher?" he asked, looking over his pad to check the name.

"Yes, I am." Michelle didn't recall ordering anything, so this was news to her. The man, whose name turned out to be Daniel, handed her the pad for her signature. After the business was done, he handed her a small cardboard box, tipped his hat in goodbye and walked back to his truck.

Michelle turned the box over in her hand as she closed the door with the other. There was no address of any kind on it; not even her own. Sitting on the chair in the kitchen, she tore the box open to see what was inside.

Inside, tucked away within protective material, sat a brand new phone. She couldn't identify the model since she had no knowledge of phones, but it clearly looked like the newest model of _whatever_ on the market. Its keypad was an actual qwerty keyboard, instead of her flip phone number pad.

With her excitement reaching unbelievable lengths, she turned it on and waited for it to boot. The interface was unlike anything she'd seen before, all the apps on its touchscreen coming to life right before her eyes. She could barely believe what she was seeing.

Suddenly, reality began to take a hold as she realized that she could never afford a phone like this and the only person who knew she needed a new one had destroyed hers hours earlier. The thought alone sobered her instantly and she almost threw the phone to the floor in disgust. Before the urge could take hold, the phone beeped and Jim Moriarty's number came to life on the screen. She thought about ignoring it, but the reasonable side of her noted that it was probably a bad idea.

_Enjoy it. I'll be in touch. – J_

She grasped the phone harshly, glaring hatefully at the screen with no method to release her anger. The whole situation went from bad to worse the more Jim Moriarty integrated himself within her life. And it certainly seemed like he enjoyed watching her struggle with his presence. The mere fact that he would be so interested in her life when he probably had others to destroy was irritating to her.

Normally, she would accept this as an act of kindness, but Jim Moriarty wasn't kind. He was cunning and sharp. In his mind, this was probably a token that symbolized his mastery over her. And Michelle had no doubt that he would be able to log every single call and text that she would make with this device.

No.

No, it wasn't going to happen like that. She wasn't going to roll over and take everything that Jim Moriarty said to put on a pedestal. She wasn't particularly brave, but she wasn't a coward. She'd go out and buy her own damn phone. There was no point in making it easy for him to control her.

She would not be his puppet.

* * *

**I want to reassure everyone that I will update this story, but my next semester starts in a few days and updating will be more sporadic than usual, so I apologize in advance.**

**As for romance, there will be some, but I strive to make it believable. Moriarty would never quickly fall for someone; his love is a more possessive/territorial aspect than "hugs and cuddles." And at that point, I'm not sure I'd even call it love.  
**

**Another reason for my long update time is Far Cry 3. I am addicted to this game. I'm sorry.  
**

**And Vaas is sexy.  
**

**I seem to be harboring a lot of love-feelings for insane antagonists lately.**

**I am okay with this.  
**


	4. Chapter 4

**The Language of Flowers**

* * *

"Hey, are you all right?"

Laura's voice broke through Michelle's thoughts like a tornado. It was a simple lunch date, a time for both girls to unwind after the catastrophe of _The Garden._ The owner, Mrs. Richmond, was planning on rebuilding. Once she finished, Laura and Michelle would finally be able to get their jobs back. That was a relief for Michelle, who hadn't even begun to look for a new job since the murder.

The two women sat in a little café on the end of Laura's street. It was quaint and homey and it made Michelle feel more comfortable than sitting at home. Truth be told, Michelle couldn't stand sitting at home for longer than an hour. Even when she was working on something, she continued to get distracted. She viewed the place with a sense of abhorrent disgust that wasn't present before Jim Moriarty had entered her life.

It had only been a few days, but she hadn't heard from the criminal mastermind yet. The phone he had sent to her was hidden away from the world in her flat, shut off so that he couldn't contact her. She hadn't been able to replace the phone he had smashed, and considering she still didn't have a landline, Jim Moriarty would have no way of getting a hold of her by phone.

Still, that didn't mean he couldn't find other methods. Each day Michelle entered her dingy flat expecting another package or a note of some kind detailing his demands of her for that night. He hadn't made any since that day he came to her flat, and his silence toward the situation left her on edge and antsy. The fact that he hadn't attempted to contact her in any fashion left her feeling completely unsafe.

"Michelle, answer me," Laura demanded. She had caught the look of absent terror on Michelle's face for a split second before it vanished.

"Sorry," Michelle responded. "I just have a lot on my mind."

"I can tell. Not all of it seems good. Want to talk about it?" Michelle smiled softly, tracing the outside of her mug thoughtfully. She had barely tasted any of the coffee that had been inside it.

"No, it's not worth mentioning."

"If it's bothering you this much, it sure as hell is worth mentioning." Laura had been a constant beacon of support in the past few days. She knew that Michelle had struggled in the past with her priorities, and despite all her attempts to lend a hand, Michelle's pride had often gotten in the way.

"Well…" she trailed off. Michelle considered telling Laura about Jim Moriarty, however, she was uncertain whether he would deem Laura a threat if Michelle explained the situation to her. The entire confrontation was something that Michelle desperately needed off her chest, and in a cramped, quaint café was the chance to do it, than Jim Moriarty be damned! "I've met this guy…"

Laura paused in taking a bite of her blueberry muffin, giving Michelle a look that clearly showed interest. Michelle, in the two years she had been in London, hadn't shown any particular interest in men (or women, for that matter, but Laura hadn't pegged Michelle as homosexual anyway). Sometimes Laura liked to imagine that Michelle was completely asexual – eventually she even began to believe it. To hear Michelle say that there was a mystery man involved in her life was shocking, and even a little worrisome.

"That's surprising, I have to admit. Uh, is he a love interest?"

"Absolutely not!" The vehemence of Michelle's voice carried through the café easily, causing several customers to glance up from their conversations and meals to pin the two women with curious looks. Michelle instantly felt contrite, face heating up slowly and noticeably. Laura paid no mind to the people around her and stared at Michelle stoically. She might have been laid back about most things in life, but that didn't mean she wasn't smart.

"So, he's not a love interest, then. Clearly, you're not fond of him at all."

"I couldn't imagine anyone who would be," Michelle mumbled. Laura quirked an eyebrow before sighing softly, taking a sip of her tea.

"Is this a guessing game, or are you actually going to tell me what's wrong? Normally, I wouldn't mind indulging you, but this is clearly bothering you and I want you to tell me."

"It's kind of silly, you know?" Michelle laughed softly, resting her chin on her hand, elbow leaning on the table. "I came to England with so many plans – great and thought out plans, mind you. This wasn't a whimsy of mine. I wanted this since I entered sixth grade and everything was supposed to go so perfectly."

"Things rarely do," Laura stated in a surprising moment of empathy.

"And even when things went downhill, I never really thought that my plans had hit the dirt. I just thought 'hey, I'll work harder and get back on track. Everything will work out because I know what I want out of life.' Despite that, no matter how hard I worked, things just never seemed to… click, you know? They just never seemed to stop going downhill. I mean, yeah, they went on a line for a while – never getting better or worse – but now… now… the downhill slope has reached a plummet." Laura was silent, staring at Michelle gently.

Michelle had never really spoken about her predicament until that moment. She always focused on the future and what that had in store for her, so Laura was never really aware of how much it had bothered her. They both knew what Michelle's situation entailed, but Michelle was never pessimistic about it and she didn't complain often. It was just the way of things. Looking at her now, however, Laura realized that these worries were constantly weighing on Michelle's mind like an anvil for the past couple years.

Regardless, for Michelle to begin confessing these worries and fears to Laura now seemed suspicious and uncharacteristic. It didn't escape Laura's notice that Michelle hadn't mentioned the mystery man again, and a sinking feeling in Laura knew that he had something to do with this sudden lack of confidence. She felt angry on Michelle's behalf, but until Michelle told her anything, there was nothing that she could fathom doing.

"Things always get worse before they get better, Michelle. You're doing all right at the moment, considering what you've been through." Laura might have continued speaking, but was interrupted by a polite 'excuse me.' Looking to her right, she was surprised to see Richard Brook from the flower shop standing before their table. It didn't escape her notice that every muscle in Michelle's body stiffened upon hearing his voice. Mystery Man: Located.

"I remember you from the flower shop. Laura, was it? Nice to see you again," he stated politely with a calm smile. She furrowed her eye brows in confusion, realizing instantly that Michelle had no intention of responding.

"Richard Brook, right? Yeah, I remember you. You're a hard man to forget." Something in his eyes appeared to darken as his smile widened.

"Is that so?" He turned toward Michelle. "Hello, Michelle. It's nice… to see you again." Michelle quickly gave the man an uneasy, quick smile before returning her gaze to the mug of cold coffee. The rest of the small bit of energy that Michelle might have had seemed to expel quickly from her form; she slumped forward, leaning on the table, exhaustion radiating from her body and refusing to look up at either of the two people.

"So, Mr. Brook…?" Laura asked quickly, hoping to distract him from… something. When Michelle had told her the first time in that flower shop that this man gave her the creeps, Laura had shrugged it off with the excuse being Michelle's blatant asexuality. Now that she saw him again, outside of the comforting workplace, she had to agree that he seemed strange. Richard Brook had carefully trained his face in the polite expression he radiated now and seeing Michelle in the state that she did, Laura realized that the situation was probably much worse than she originally believed.

"Yes, that's me."

"You seem very familiar with Michelle." From an outsider's perspective, that might come off as a typical friendly interrogation, but the reality was much more threatening. Michelle didn't seem to take Laura's attempt at protection very well because her head had snapped up and she reached over to grab Laura's hand harshly.

"We've run into each other a few times. He's the type of person who doesn't enjoy formalities," Michelle said quickly. There was desperation in her tone that didn't go unnoticed from either Richard Brook or Laura. He smiled in response while Laura frowned thoughtfully.

"I hope you didn't get rid of the phone I bought you," Richard Brook spoke up, "considering my… clumsiness in breaking your former one." Laura was shocked to see Michelle glare at him hatefully, contempt rising steadily in her hazel eyes.

"I don't accept gifts or charity, _Mr. Brook._ I'd sell that phone before I actually used it. Oh! There's an idea. I could certainly use the money." Laura could have sworn that she saw Richard's eye twitch slightly, his smile stretched wider to hide his displeasure, which she had no doubt he was feeling much of. The insult in Michelle's words would have tested the patience of a normal person, but this man didn't scream 'normal.' Michelle had also never been that harsh with anyone; Laura had often complained that Michelle was too polite, and this seemed to go against everything that Laura knew about Michelle's etiquette.

"That certainly is a shame. I was hoping you would take the gift with a light heart." He almost looked heartbroken at her refusal.

"Life is full of disappointments."

"Isn't it just? Hm," he hummed loudly. "Well, please, keep it anyway. It _was_ a gift." With those final words, he walked away, sparing neither of the women another glance. Michelle glared after him like an angry tabby cat; all claws extracted and puffed fur. Laura was almost certain that Michelle would have released a hiss if they weren't out in public.

"Want to tell me what _that_ was about?" Laura demanded, pulling her hand away from Michelle's grasp.

Michelle desperately didn't want to answer any questions regarding the man who walked away so haughtily from their small café table. In her mind, which was getting more jaded as interactions with said man continued, she realized that he would be very angry at her in a way she couldn't comprehend in the moment. Michelle had the intelligence to begin worrying about her situation, knowing that there was no way to escape it, but desperately clinging to any hope of independence from the man named Jim Moriarty.

Hazel eyes gazed at Laura's blue ones for a moment, deciding whether to take the plunge and simply ask to stay at her flat for the night. However, Michelle didn't know if Moriarty would punish Laura for a disobedience that had nothing to do with her, just to get back at Michelle's hubris. It was a large possibility, and Michelle couldn't be certain that he hadn't already decided to punish Laura in her place.

Michelle wasn't the type of person to lie to her own mind when she was aware of her position. Moriarty had already deduced that Laura was her only real friend in London, and Laura would be an easy target if he ever wanted Michelle to yield to him. The meeting between the two in the café was probably him showing Michelle how easy it was to get into physical contact with anything dear to her. She hadn't even contemplated how dangerous that had made him until that very moment.

Moriarty was a snake, a spider, a wasp – anything that was both gross and annoying, while potentially being extremely dangerous when provoked. And Michelle, well, she considered herself a fox on most days – rather cunning when she had to be and there was a certain way about her that managed to get her out of tricky situations her entire life. Except, in the presence of Jim Moriarty, she felt more like a vulnerable kitten or a newborn seal, perhaps even a lady bug. She was unable to escape this psychotic excuse of a criminal, and that fact became clearer to her each day.

When he didn't show up randomly in her life, she was always anxious and on guard. She could never just sit home and relax because a place that once meant safety and comfort was now an uncertain, unfamiliar domain that held no sway over the comings and goings of a certain predator. Michelle never knew when he would decide to come calling and this resulted in a loss of sleep that she just couldn't afford, yet afforded it she did.

Then, like today, there were the times when he would randomly show up in her life. This was the first time since that day in her apartment, but she didn't fool herself for a moment that any other time would feel different. He would pop up inconspicuously, catching her off guard even when her guard was up, say a few pseudo-kind words that held the undertone of murder and succinct demands, then vanish as if he had never popped up into her life in the first place. Rinse, and repeat.

Jim Moriarty ensured that he was on her mind whenever and wherever she happened to be. When alone, she would wonder when he would turn up, and when he confronted her, she would hastily attempt to make him leave, wondering if he would grace her presence again with an anger that her earlier actions had caused. He conquered her entire being and Michelle knew, as most victims in her place often do, that she was playing right into his hands by acting the way she was. And yet, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't go back to her normal life knowing that he was hovering in the background, waiting to push her down whenever she attempt to stand back up.

What could she possibly do?

"I think I'm going to head home, Laura. I don't feel very well." She did the only thing she could do: allow Laura to leave her presence unscathed, retreat home, and wait for the man who she _knew_ instinctively would go there. She could tell that Laura was hesitant to let her leave. And why shouldn't she be? Michelle's hostility towards the man Laura knew as Richard Brook probably seemed misplaced. Certainly not Michelle's average response to acquaintances, but she was sick of pretenses and pretending that everything was all right.

Eventually, with surprisingly less hassle than she imagined, Michelle was able to part Laura's company and began her trek home. She was afraid, that much was certain; what could possibly be lying behind her flat's closed doors? Would Moriarty be sitting on her faded recliner like he had her kitchen chair? Would he be standing in her kitchen with some flunky to scare her into compliance or hurt her?

Physical torture didn't seem a part of Moriarty's repertoire, but she couldn't put anything past such a psychotic and delusional man. His childish "I'm-better-than-anyone-else-so-everyone-must-do-what-I-say-because-you're-all-my-toys" philosophy was really grating on her nerves, and he hadn't spoken to her extensively. Her entire being rejected everything about that man.

And yet… he was a difficult image to shake. It would be easier for her if he was physically unattractive. The fact that he wasn't completely hideous was clearly a ploy against her. A small part of her wanted to believe that his personality wasn't truly as ugly as it seemed. She wanted to believe that he possessed the capacity to be… kind?

Maybe that wasn't the right word. Considerate?

"God, that's even worse." Michelle shook her head fiercely to rid herself of the image of Moriarty being kind. Even though it would be preferable to the detestable nature in which he was treating her, the image of him smiling in any way other than malicious didn't seem to fit.

She realized that she had walked right up to her doorstep without paying attention. Placing a hand on the door jamb, she paused for a moment. In all honesty, she wasn't ready to step through that door to face Jim Moriarty because, really, there was no way he wasn't waiting for her in there. She had insulted him and brushed him off without a second glance, and he wasn't the type to let something like that slip by. Sure, he may have figured it was amusing at first, but eventually the anger was sure to set in.

She opened the door and relaxed slightly when she wasn't immediately ambushed with cold, unfeeling words and promises of punishment. The door creaked as it opened completely, but the sound didn't make her flinch as it normally would. Her flat was too quiet, and the door's shrill shriek was therapeutic on her nerves.

Jim Moriarty didn't appear to be anywhere in her flat. A sigh of relief escaped her throat instantly, but she didn't want to relax just yet. From her vantage point, she could only see the kitchen and a bit of the den. She had no idea whether he would bother to wait in her bedroom to scare her.

The image of Jim Moriarty possibly waiting in her bedroom, lying on her bed with a look of haughty expectation caused unwanted warmth in Michelle. It didn't take her long to be completely stupefied by her body's reaction to the wholly unexpected imagery. Yet, her body didn't seem to want to listen to her common sense; the warmth simply continued to persist.

She could image him lying there with that smirk on his face that he always seems to conjure up in her presence. Where would his hands be? Probably folded on his stomach, or possibly clasped behind his head in a pose that certainly insinuated 'come hither.' Jim Moriarty didn't seem like the type of person who indulged in sexual activity often, and if he did, Michelle could guess that it would never be with her.

Uh… not that she would want it, anyway.

She slammed the door furiously, upset with the direction her thoughts had taken her. Did she have no shame?! He was ruining her life and making her miserable and her mind turns to sex. What was wrong with her?

She threw her bag on the small kitchen table, shrugging out her of jacket, feeling extremely dirty and tainted. Whether Jim Moriarty was in her flat or not no longer mattered; she just needed to take a shower immediately, hopefully washing away her thoughts with it.

In the process of simply stripping down in her kitchen, an object on the coffee table of her den caught her eye. She hadn't noticed it from her previous position in the doorway, but now that she had a clearer view, it made her pause.

Right there on the small table was a vase. The flowers within it were beautifully arranged, something that made her cringe because that was _her_ specialty and something she prided herself on. Bundles of pastel pink Carolina Syringas jutted out of the expensive vase, taunting her with their innocence. To make matters worse, the still portrait was completed with bits of Bayberry branches towering over the Carolinas.

It truly was beautiful. Michelle almost slumped forward upon the realization that Jim Moriarty was the _only_ person who would get into her flat so stealthily and leave something like this.

Carolinas meant 'disappointment,' and she knew that he was mocking her. His self-satisfied smirk and mock-frown were so vivid in her mind; Michelle was surprised that she had only known him a few weeks. She felt like she knew him her entire life. Jim Moriarty wasn't the type of person to put on extensive acts, and while Michelle could never tell what he was thinking, he always made sure she knew how he felt.

She ignored the Carolinas, for they didn't mean much in the grand scheme of things. It was the Bayberry leaves that made her uncomfortable. It was exactly as she expected. Jim Moriarty didn't disappoint.

_Discipline._

* * *

It took a great deal of self-control for Moriarty not to launch his office chair at the wall or overturn his desk. Instead, he let out a shaky laugh mockingly. It wasn't often that he didn't have complete control over his emotions; he wasn't bipolar, as some might have believed. He was more sophisticated than that.

But he couldn't deny that he was conflicted. He hated being conflicted. After the little show he put on for the girl and her _friend_, he had marched to the nearest flower shop – and there weren't many and it fucking irritated him to high hell – demanded the best arrangement of Carolinas and Bayberry leaves (which the store clerk gave him and odd look at such a choice) and marched straight to her flat to drop them off. It didn't help that the arrangement had to be done about five times before he was happy with it.

And even then, he wasn't very happy. He didn't enjoy being talked back to in the manner that Michelle Fletcher had. It got under his skin in a way it had rarely before. The mere notion that he had lost control of that situation had him throwing his account booklets at the wall in a haze of fury. Thankfully the chair and desk had yet to be thrown; otherwise the damage to his walls would further enrage him.

The irritating aspect of it was that he wasn't even that bothered by her back-sassing him. Normally, if it were anyone else, he would be completely furious and immediately order someone to end that person's pathetic life. No, Michelle Fletcher's resistance didn't irritate him too much.

It was his complete and utter intrigue in her resistance.

Many people have tried to resist him before, and they didn't live to talk about it. Yet this small slip of a girl managed to make him passive aggressive – something that he had never been in his life. He didn't want to order her death because he was fascinated by her.

She wouldn't answer his texts, most likely because she left the phone off and hid it; she talked back to him with fear in her eyes, but she never allowed it to control her; she fought for her independence, even though it was obvious that she wouldn't last longer on persistence alone; she tried to exceed his intelligence, which was a laughable notion, yet she was undeniably clever and tenacious.

All of these personality traits were things that annoyed Moriarty in his prey, yet he was unwilling to completely douse the fire he saw in her. She was his toy, and he took care of his things, but this was more than his normal patience would allow.

His phone rang suddenly, _almost_ causing him to jump. He got caught in his thoughts, allowing his guard to drop – another irritating thing that began to happen when Michelle Fletcher caught his eye.

He held it tightly in his hand, wishing it would disappear for a moment until he had peace of mind. Unfortunately, that was one desire that Moriarty couldn't demand instantly. He had a job to do, one that he was incredibly proud of, and it wasn't going to get done on its own.

"Yes, what is it?" He didn't even look at the caller I.D. Slowly, the frown on his face disappeared, replaced with a haunting grin that showed off his flawlessly white teeth. "Is that so?"

He fell back on to his office chair, crossing his feet at the ankles, very much looking like the cat that caught the canary. It was about time he had gotten some good news – or at least news that pleased him; it didn't necessarily have to be good.

"Well, make sure you do it right," he spoke through the phone to the man on the other end. His tone had become relatively business-like, almost 'no-nonsense,' if Moriarty could even fathom what that entailed.

"If there are any mistakes, it'll be your head, and I don't mean that figuratively," he drawled lazily. He ended the call abruptly without waiting for the man to respond and threw the phone on his desk. It struck the wood with a finality that pleased Moriarty's inner poet and he filled with exhilaration at the thought of what was to come.

Little Miss Michelle Fletcher could finally be of some use.

* * *

**A/N:** I'm back (sort of)! I apologize for the long wait. It wasn't originally my intention, but it was almost unavoidable. I had to rewrite this chapter about five times. Each time I started it one way, hated it, deleted it, then started again. It wasn't really writer's block, it was just me being nit-picky and unsatisfied. It didn't flow as easily as the other chapters, and it became very irritating. I'm still not quite happy with it.

I'm reaching the mid-term point of my semester, so it's a lot of essays and studying for exams (not to mention I have to draw a small comic for my Graphic Novel class and I am horrible with a pencil and paper. Yikes), so I probably won't be updating for a week or two (I'm SO sorry!).

My spring break is the week of the 11th (why so early, you may ask? I have no idea. Brilliant idea: "Lets have the college students come back to class right after St. Patrick's Day! DERP."), so I'll be able to work on the story a bit then. With my free time, I'm actually going to do an outline for this story (something that I haven't done deeply before) because I know where I want to take it, but I have no idea how to get there.

I will do my best to keep things going, however! Thanks for reading!

Reviews = Love


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